


For the Weary

by simplyprologue



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post Exodus, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:17:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyprologue/pseuds/simplyprologue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>She didn’t want to talk, yet. If ever. He was old enough to know that loving someone didn’t mean learning all their secrets.</i> Bill and Laura reunite after the exodus from New Caprica.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Weary

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** I figured I might as well throw my hat (quite belatedly) into the ring for post-New Caprica smut. Thanks to Rachel for cheering me on! 
> 
> For constantly-talking and afinpassing on tumblr. 
> 
> **TW:** References to implied torture, nothing graphic.

She came padding out from from his rack, tunneling a hand through her wild hair, glasses perched low on her nose.

“Hey,” he said, drinking her in from his seat on the sectional. Forty-eight hours out from the exodus, they had only seen each other awake for a few minutes, parceled by his hectic CIC schedule and her diagnosis by Cottle of exhaustion and dehydration. She had assumed his bed as her own--which Bill was not inclined to complain about--and therefore their reunion had been him waking her up to make room for him after a twenty-four hour stint at the comm and her immediately falling back to sleep against his chest. “How are you?”

Laura sighed, and Bill leaned back, hands folded on his lap.

She was too thin, her cheekbones slicing the gaunt lines of her face, and too pale, with dark bruises of fatigue stamped under her eyes. Around her wrists and ankles were angry, red marks. (She had been bound, he realized, hiding the shock of it behind his watching eyes. She deserved more than his emotional reaction when she had yet to bare her own.)

He held out an arm to her, and she smiled, relieved, eyes showing tired affection. She didn’t want to talk, yet. If ever. He was old enough to know that loving someone didn’t mean learning all their secrets. And Laura Roslin was nothing but an enigma.

She climbed into his lap, her movements light and feline, and he rubbed heat into her thighs with his palms--her skin was not yet cold, still warm from from sleep, but he remembered how she shook while he held her the night before. _Aren’t you cold?_ he thought. She wore nothing but one of his old tee shirts and her underwear, her New Caprica clothes still crumpled on the floor of his head, where she had thrown them before taking a shower and crawling into bed. His bed.

He missed her under his fingertips.

He watched as his fingers traced down to her knees, to where the hem of his shirt touched the tops of her thighs, suffocating the overwhelming urge to crush her to him.

She hummed, shifting on top of him and leaning forward until he felt her lips on his cheek, her eyelashes fluttering against his skin. “Thank you,” she whispered, resting her hands on his shoulders with the slightest weight.

He wanted her weight against him, wanted to feel her, to learn with his hands that she was real and here, safe and warm and clean.

“When do you have get to back to CIC?” she asked, her lips next to his ear.

His hands traced up to the bow of her spine, then back, then under the soft cotton shirt to her softer skin. He tried not to react to the raised, swollen skin he found, or the thin, grid-like scabs--because she didn’t, only kept pressing soft kisses into his cheek. _Are you okay? What did they do to you? Are you okay to be doing this? Should we just go back to bed?_

It was her choice, and he did not outline the contusions with his fingers, just adorned her back with long, sweeping caresses.

“I don’t,” he murmured, before angling his head to run his tongue around the shell of her ear, pressing her closer to him (carefully, palms laid on unharmed flesh) when she shivered. “Shift just ended.”

“Lucky me.”

He pulled his head back so he could look at her, battered, but not diminished, and kissed her until her cheeks were flushed, then pulled back again. A wave of careful emotions washed over her face, by turns affectionate and hesitant, and warring with herself until finally Laura threw reticence over the ledge and slid forward on his lap until their groins met.

 _Let her take the lead_. _And don’t ask her if she’s okay. Don’t do anything to make her shut down_. _Let her talk when she wants to talk_.

He’d seen war. He didn’t see _her_ war, though. He wasn’t there--but he could be, now.

Carefully, but without giving the impression of hesitance, he trailed his hands down her back and out from the tee shirt, up to her hair. Swept the waves to one side over her shoulder, combed out the snarls with his fingers, until her hands slid up from his shoulders to frame his face, gently forcing him to look at her with her fingers pressing into the nape of his neck, thumbs sliding down the line of his jaw.

Tears hemmed her eyes, and she swallowed them down with a shaky breath.

 _Don’t push_.

He always pushed. Until he pushed them away. And not... he couldn’t, not with Laura. But she was here, in his quarters, in his clothes, on his lap.

“Laura...” he whispered, not a question, and she looked at him like he held her soul on his lips. Tilting his face up to hers, she brought their mouths together once, twice, three times--light, not sweet, but instead a prelude to the moment she slanted her lips over his and leaned more of her weight against him, sweeping her tongue against his. Bill fisted his hands into her hair, sucking her tongue deeper into his mouth, holding it there until relenting so she could suck on his lower lip and break away, high, breathy sounds escaping from the back of her throat.

“Laura?”

“I’ve... spoken with Zarek,” she said, voice abrupt, removing her glasses and placing them on the ledge above the couch. Placed her hands back on his shoulders, fingers molding into the wool of his jacket, before darting to his front to pluck the buttons apart. He waited, while she pulled apart the halves and let her fingers search out his skin. Not looking at him in the eye, she sighed unevenly. “Five of the Quorum are missing or dead. Zarek plans to hold special elections in three days, after which he will appoint me as Vice President--”

“And then step down.”

She nodded jerkily. “Yes.”

“So you need to get a staff together and a plan ready in three days time.” Bill ran the backs on his index and middle fingers down her cheek, lightly, and her eyes fluttered closed.

“Yes.”

He smiled, and leaned up to kiss the corner of her mouth. “You’re still gonna need a place to sleep for three nights, Madame President.”

“I _am_ fond of your rack,” she told him lowly, before directing him out of his jacket, letting it drop to the floor.

He kissed the hollow between her collarbones, and then pulled back to look up at her openly, almost smirking. “And my clothes.”

Laura hummed. “You’re not complaining.”

He snorted, cupping her breasts over the tee shirt. “Look better on you.” _If only it could always be like this_. If he could keep her in his quarters, in his clothes. But Laura Roslin was no kept woman, and definitely not his wife, and the term on _lover_ was soon to expire. But he would wait for her. Always, for her.

“So... three days?” he rasped, winding his arms around her, and she leaned her chest against his. If three days were all he could have with her, then he would take them, and not mourn them, not after these four months of uncertainty, the year of separation, the weeks of sitting next to her deathbed before that.

“Yeah.” She looked down at her hands, the tense muscles on her face playing out her own inner battle to keep her emotions in check.

 _Let go_ , he thought.

They would steal this moment from the gods. No matter if it was given, they would take it. This was their rest for the weary.

Laura bent her head to trace his top lip with her tongue. “Please,” she breathed against his mouth, voice betraying only a hint of the emotional turmoil beneath the exhaustion, of the fragility she only trusted him with.

“Are you sure?” he asked, between one kiss and another. _Are you too tired? Are you ready?_ He’d stop. Should he stop? _I need to trust her_. Laura nodded, pressing her thighs in close to his hips, her mouth a breath away from his, carefully choosing the angle, eyes flickering to his--waiting, letting it increase tenfold before finally, finally, crashing her lips to his.

Holding her hips to his, Bill found the sharp bones of her hips with his thumbs.

 _Toothintoothintoothin_. He squashed down the thought. She gave him her body; insecurities had no place in tonight. No, he would celebrate her body, her skin, her sex. Take her fragility and give her love. Take their weariness, and give back joy, for what little they time they may have it.

He forced his hand between them found her clit through her panties, before tugging the elastic down and pushing his fingers between her folds, rubbed her until she moaned loudly into his mouth, sucked his tongue between her lips. Laura wound her fingers through his hair, bowing her back to give him more room, circling her hips and kissing his breath from him while he urged wetness from her pussy.

When she broke her lips from his, breath stuttered and gasping, he tipped her back onto the couch and slid her underwear down her legs, cast them onto the floor. Taking only the time to stand to kick off his boots, open his belt buckle, send his trousers and boxers to the ground, Bill joined her. He lowered himself on top of her, and let her pull his tanks up and over his head.

They were tired and it would be quick, but it would be like coming home.

Her hand found his cock and stroked him quickly to hardness, content to let him pant into her neck while she did so. Laura didn’t fight when he batted her hand away, licked the tender lines of her neck while he stroked his member through her wetness, letting it slide over her clit, teasing her entrance with the head.

“Ready?” He kissed her earlobe.

She nodded, breath hitching when he pushed through the tight ring of muscle at her opening and he turned his head to trail a line of kisses down her jaw. Like a sniper waiting to pull the trigger between heartbeats, he pushed in further with each pause between her shaky breaths, until fully seated inside her.

Her breaths grew desperate, and Bill rose up onto his elbows to wipe the tears from her cheeks. _Should we stop?_ He wasn’t sure what she saw in his face, but she shook her head and wrapped her fingers around his biceps.

“No, Bill, it’s not... I’m just...” Her face threatened to crumple; with one hand he stroked her hair away from her face, with the other he stroked the soft cotton covering her waist.

“We can wait, Laura,” he rumbled, when she averted her eyes. “We don’t have to do this tonight.”

“I just... I...” She closed her eyes, and more tears escaped--he wiped them away immediately.

“Laura--”

 He turned his head to look down at the floor, where his clothes were.

" _Don’t s_ _top_.” Her tone surprised him, and when he looked back at her, her eyes were open and wide, forceful, but vulnerable. “Please,” she whispered. “Just don’t... _stop_. I--I need--”

“Okay.” He kissed her gently, reassuringly, continuing to push her hair away from her face. Pulling back, only slightly, so he could still feel her breath against his lips, he punctuated it with a thrust. “Okay.”

She nodded as if assuring herself, shoring up her grip on his arms.

Resting his forehead on her cheekbone, he gave her another thrust; another, another, another, relief flooding him when he hears her gasp with pleasure, when she planted her feet on the couch cushions and lifted her hips to catch the movement of his hips.

“Yeah,” she moaned quietly, voice shaking when they find their rhythm.

“Come on,” he urged her, voice tense, when her back arched and he could feel her nipples pushing against his chest through the shirt. His hands slipped under her back, holding her fast to him, so he could feel her soft breasts, her heaving heart. She was there. She was home, with him, off that planet, away from harm.

Keening, being pushed to fall just as quickly as him, she grabbed fistfuls of his hair and brought his mouth back to hers, sharing a breath more than a kiss as they moved faster together.

“Missed you,” he groaned, feeling every inch of her from head to toe pressed against him. And suddenly, his own thoughts broke through, words spilling out like a broken dam, given voice and gone before he could stop himself. “Gods, Laura, I--I was so worried, and I--”

“Me too,” she breathed. “But we’re here.”

He nodded frantically, burying his face in her shoulder. Strokes growing longer, they moved together, pressed together. Bill closed his eyes against his impending orgasm, tension coiling at the base of his spine, begging to be released. _Please come please come please come_.

His hands moved again, to her hips, lifting them snugly against his own and he moved harder, trying not to think of the bruises and cuts he’d discover on her torso when he finally got her naked, of the angry welts on her wrists and ankles, of whatever must be going on in her mind, trying not to think of all the things he’s trying to chase away for her, for him, right now.

They’re alive.

She moaned, louder, and he ignored the tears prickling behind his eyelids. When he reached down between them and stroked her clit she gasped and froze under him, before he felt her clench down around him, walls of muscle fluttering around him. He bit down on the skin above her collarbone, feeling the pressure in his belly build to an almost painful level before it released.

Grunting, Bill jerked his hips into hers, breathing harshly into her skin, soothing his bite mark with his tongue.

“Sorry.”

She laughed, in a way that sounded like she was out of practice, like she was clearing away dust. He kissed the mark again.

“Don’t be,” she whispered, stroking her hands up and down his back, his arms.  _What are you thinking, Laura?_

His lips moved up her neck, to the spot behind her ear, to right under her jaw. He paused, hesitating. She didn’t pull back, before, when he first slid his hands under the shirt, felt whatever the frakking cylons did to her back. Maybe she wanted him to ask. She chose to be here, with him. Maybe she needed him to him, because she couldn’t say it out right, otherwise.

“How are you?”

One of her hands left his back to wipe her face. He kissed her neck again, at the place where her heart heaved blood into throat.

“Really?” she asked, voice thick.

“Really.”

She lifted a hand to smooth his hair back into place. “I’m better. Now, with you. Here.”

He wanted to ask if she was sure that she wanted to become president again, but didn’t. Either way, his door was always open to her, and his bed. (And heart.) And she knew that. He knew that for whatever they _were_ uncertain of (the future, how this would all end, or begin at all), it was not their feelings for each other. She yawned, and he laughed.

“How long were you asleep for?”

“Five hours, I think?” She snuggled closer, protesting in a half-hearted way when he reached down for his tanks, extracting the outer one, and cleaned first her and then himself with it. “Still frakking tired.”

“I bet.” The couch wouldn’t be comfortable for the two of them to sleep on. Bill stood, and pulled his boxers back on before offering Laura his hand.

She took it and stood as well, and then tugged his arm over her shoulders. “How long were you in CIC for? You were gone when I woke up.”

“Um...” he racked his brain. What time was it, even?

She giggled, and for him, at least, it was like coming up for air.

"One of those?”

He smiled, directing her to his rack. “Yeah. One of those.”

At some point she’d have to take her shirt off, and he’d see everything. Or she’d do it behind a door, or when he wasn’t there. He didn’t know. And in three days, she’d leave. Go back to Colonial One, and the book on them would be closed, for now. And then the Admiral just couldn’t lay next to the president in his rack and learn her battle scars. Couldn’t feel her naked skin under his fingertips.

She yawned again.

He let her take the outside of the rack, and she turned into his chest, slinging an arm over his waist.

But for tonight, he could have her skin, and her hair. Her eyes and lips, her hands on him and legs tangled with his own. He could have her; she’d always have him. He’d never be able to shut this off--she was the first person to tempt him to stay, and it terrified him. That she held that power, that now he’d be staring down interminable years without her. Without being able to touch her and give voice to how much he frakking loved her.

But for tonight, they slept.

This was their break.

And they would take all of it that they could get. 

 


End file.
